


No Love in Idleness

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, BAMF Stiles, Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Fae & Fairies, Fae Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mpreg, Werewolf Courting, courting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-08 21:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3224870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the sole grandchild of none other than Robin Goodfellow, the most mischievous faerie ever to wreak havoc among the Folk and Man alike. To the people of Beacon Court, he is at best a merry wanderer of the night. </p><p>At first, Ser Derek is inclined to agree, but the little bird on his shoulder has quite a bit to say about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Most Inconvenient Courtship

**Author's Note:**

> The temptation to tag this with 'Derek Hale is a Disney Princess' was so, so strong. 
> 
> Many thanks go out to Mala, Radish, and all of the other precious treasure baes over at the [Steter Network Chatzy.](http://us19.chatzy.com/72400097218690)
> 
> In addition, thanks to all of the precious gifts on tumblr who suggested wooing methods. [Thefirstlotus](http://thefirstlotus.tumblr.com/) recommended a gift of food, [Heitanj](http://heitanj.tumblr.com/) suggested tokens of intent (ie lube and dildos), [Goodoceangonewrong](http://goodoceangonewrong.tumblr.com/) suggested animal friends, [Bxdcubes](http://bxdcubes.tumblr.com/) suggested birdsong, and [Whiskerknittles](http://whiskerknittles.tumblr.com/) suggested ancient vows. 
> 
> This started out as an attempt at a cute little oneshot and got so much worse.

The great thing about being fae and affiliated – loosely though it may be – with a Court is that there are no Witch Hunts. He is not ordinarily in any sort of position to be predated, so long as he resists the apparently popular urge to go about playing at being a firefly.

Stiles shudders at the thought. That way lies living the rest of one’s very limited days in a jar with twigs and leaves, being jostled and stared at by sticky-fingered mortal children. Granted, there’s nothing _wrong_ with sticky fingers inherently. He’s been known to come away from a lazy afternoon with hands coated liberally in blackberry juice, grinning like a bandit.

And he’s not precisely a saint either, all things considered. There’s more than a few who curse his comings and goings, but there’s not much to be done about it. Stiles is a wandering fae. Though not precisely solitary as he has an anchor point to return to, and he does return often.

He may take turns about the Earth as easily as a zephyr, but Beacon Court is where his father makes his home, and Stiles is loyal if nothing else. He will always return.

Not everyone is happy about that. In fact, most of those gathered under the banner of Beacon are notably _un_ happy that the grandchild of the one and only Robin Goodfellow keeps finding his way back into their midst. Things tend to be much quieter when Stiles is on one of his rambles, and without fail his return always sparks some fresh new havoc.

Today’s arrival sparks yet more controversy.

Not three hours before sunset Stiles comes on like a whirlwind, carrying blooms and heady aromas in his wake. All about him there is the sense of changing seasons, and the sound of children’s laughter rings like phantom bells in the air.

This alone may be easily forgiven, had he not careened promptly into the brand new Knight of the Court, presented to them as a boon by the Queen of the Seelie High Court herself.

And so, the legendary Ser Derek is laid flat by John and Claudia’s irreverent child, who knows not whom he lies sprawled across. Stiles stays there for a long moment, blinking owlishly down at the Knight, golden eyes studying the newest member of the Court with shameless curiosity.

He rises to his feet with a complex undulation of limbs and joints, pulling the warrior up after him. “You’re new,” he says.

And the Knight replies, “No more than you seem in your own skin. Are you man or faun, so careless in your movements?”

Stiles has little chance to respond before the other storms off. Scott is quick to lead his friend away.

 

†

 

“I _tackled_ a man of the High Court?” Stiles asks in a tone somewhere between horror and swelling pride. If he had a lick of common sense to his name, it would be more of the former, but he hasn’t, there isn’t, and he _flattened_ the legendary Wolf of the West!

There are _ballads_ about the man’s daring deeds and indomitable spirit. Stiles knows, because he frequents the sort of places where these songs are roared between great slugs of cheap spirits, scattered with bawdy tales of alleged sexual encounters the Knight has been embroiled in. And now he understands why.

Ser Derek is the most beautiful creature Stiles has ever seen. And he hangs around with _unicorns_. In the chaotic whorls and twists of Stiles’ mind he compares an endless list of friends and acquaintances from across the lands, and for the life of him he cannot find one to compete. Bronze-skinned djinn seem pale and thin in comparison. Nymphs in their flower-bedecked finery seem plain and clumsy.

At length Stiles sighs, and Scott, who has apparently been trying to talk to him for quite some time says, “Oh, no.”

He recognizes that dumb, doe-eyed look. Stiles showed it to him in the river waters once when Scott hauled him off to simper and coo over the merest brush of Allison’s fingers over the curve of her freshly carved bow.

In three hours time, Stiles has fallen horn over heel for the grim-faced Knight of the Court. This cannot possibly end without abject humiliation. Still, a Goodfellow can dream just as loftily as a Robin can fly.

 

†

 

Until he was assaulted by what appears to be the black sheep of Beacon Court, Derek was relatively content with his new home. The people are pleasant enough, though many are overeager to accommodate a man of his prestige and seem put out by his outward demeanor.

He need only to glance at a cooing nymph with her hand on his arm before she shrivels inward, as do a number of flowers in the surrounding area.

 _It’s your face, brother._ Laura once claimed. _Don’t look so sour!_

But he can’t help it. He understands passing fancy, and the narcissism that so easily drives it. To these folk, he is a new toy in brilliant armor. Soon enough, they will see him transform into his more monstrous guise and tremble at the red-stained point of tooth and claw.

There are more tall tales here than horrific reports, but soon they will arrive at a balance. Soon something will go wrong, the way things always seem to do, and the people around him will once again quake at his passing. Until then, he keeps his dour expression and drinks in the first moon of this new home, allowing her to pour her energies into the confines of his skin. His unsettled nerves straighten once more like the quiet passing of the river. He closes his eyes and begins to dream.

†

The boy from the other day – _Stiles_ , the natives tell him – continues to make an ass of himself. Rather than devote himself to any particular duty, he follows others about, teasing the older folk and agitating the younger. He flirts shamelessly with those his own age, but never seems too offended when he is rebuked, almost as if he expects nothing to come from his efforts. Derek wonders at his childish abandon, the inherent confidence behind having no confidence at all.

Despite his annoyances, the boy leaves most of these people with the spirit of a smile left about their mouths and eyes. He moves with an illusion of awkwardness, but his footsteps are never truly out of place. He dances when he turns and alights each time he plays at falling over. He is strange, and Derek does not understand.

“Are you ill?” he asks when the boy passes close by.

“Huh?” Stiles turns and _sees_ him, and a flush rises in his cheek. “Oh. No. But your concern is, of course, deeply appreciated.”

“Concern?” Derek drawls. “I was only wondering if you might crush me again.”

“Me? Crush you?” Stiles’ eyes widen comically. “There isn’t enough of me!” Derek looks him up and down, and the flush brightens. “Oh, shut up.”

“‘Shut up’?” Derek blinks.

“It’s a human expression. I wouldn’t trouble you any more with it.” The grin is back in full force, and Derek feels his lips twitch upward in answer. There is certainly something remarkable in this boy.

He watches as Stiles wanders off, hurrying to help some old woman carry a burden home, and registers a new presence at his side. Jackson, a smug-faced courtier if ever there was one, follows his line of sight.

“Think nothing of him, Ser Derek, for he is nothing.” His lips are pulled back in a sneer and Derek feels an inexplicable urge to hang him by the ankles.

“Why would you say that?”

“He’s the descendant of Robin Goodfellow. Doesn’t that tell you enough?”

“Perhaps you should educate me.”

“There’s nothing to him but mischief and lies. If he is not jesting, he is himself a jest. Trouble follows him wherever he goes, and very little else comes of his passing. An annoyance at best, like smoke without fire.”

Derek feels his blood run hot and thick and remembers what bad form it would be to strike a member of his new Court. “And what would he be, then, if fire came in his wake?”

“What?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Derek says, and then he wanders off to gouge his mark into wood and stone alike.

The people here recognize nothing of true value.

†

“Excuse me.”

Derek stops short, his destructive fit paused in the echoing timber of the forest itself. He worries, briefly, that he has felled someone’s home in his frustration. “I’m sorry.” He says, looking around for the speaker.

The man appears from behind a tree, his eyes glowing a more vibrant green than Derek has ever seen. He is taller than Derek, with deep brown skin and a cloak made of native leaves, twigs, and other flora. His feet are bare, as many of the Folk, but roots and fresh sprouts seem to wrap around his feet and ankles as he walks, as if they are reluctant to let him go.

This is a Green Man.

“Something wrong?”

“Well, I…” Derek gestures to the damage he’s done. “Your trees…”

“I meant with you.” The man’s smile is small, but present. “Trees are stronger than you think.”

“Stronger than me, at least.” Derek glances down at the tips of his aching fingers, at the place where his claws have broken off and begun to bleed. They are healing even as he surveys them, but the burning ache is undeniable.

“I would offer to shake your hand, but…”

“My name is Derek.”

“Boyd. What’s a Knight of the Court doing all the way out here?”

“Throwing a tantrum, apparently.” He sighs. “Might I ask…?”

“The way back?”

Derek nods.

“I’ll take you. You’d be lost on your own, wolf sense or no. And then it would be Stiles’ job to find you.”

“I did not think he had a job at all.”

“Surprise, then,” Boyd rumbles.

Derek feels that he has missed something.

†

A month after Derek’s arrival, the Court of Beacon comes under attack. A group of goblins sees fit to kidnap a group of children on the eve of winter’s first snowfall. The thick blanket of frost is enough to cover their tracks, obscuring the path taken, but Derek can smell blood on the snow.

The Lord and Lady of the Court are tied up in council for precious hours before Derek is allowed to prepare to track the children down. Finally, after watching courtiers and counselors argue back and forth in the most pointless forum he has _ever_ borne witness to, Derek _roars_ at the assembly.

His teeth bared and his eyes a vibrant red, he demands immediate leave to find the children himself, and it is quickly given. He turns to leave, growling low and angry. As he storms away, however, Stiles alights in his path.

The boy’s face is unusually solemn and he turns to walk with Derek as he continues on rather than blocking him. “I’ll go with you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I will,” Stiles insists. “You’ll need help finding your way back, and that’s where I come in.”

Boyd said the same thing, and has not elaborated in any of their conversations since. Derek is undeniably curious, but there are more important things at hand than learning about the subtleties of Stiles’ community involvement.

“There will be blood.”

“I expect nothing less.”

Derek pauses, his feet crunching heavily in the snow. “Even your own?”

“Would brave Ser Derek ever harm me?” Stiles’ eyes glow faintly in the dimness of early morning, and Derek cannot find a proper answer. The boy shakes his head. “I don’t believe he will. And I have nothing to worry about from anyone else.”

He continues into the wood, and Derek follows. He wonders absently how it is that Stiles seems to sense exactly where the trail leads when even to Derek’s sharpened senses it is barely retrievable from the banks of snow.

†

There is blood, and quite a bit of it.

The goblins, mercifully, have not finished arguing over their preferred method of preparation by the time Derek and Stiles arrive at their encampment. As Derek charges in, his bones cracking and reshaping him in the guise of a great beast, Stiles disappears from sight.

Under the onslaught of tooth and claw, the goblins shriek and wail. But in the distance there is a roar of icy wind and felled branches. When Derek looks up from his work, he takes in a landscape bathed in red and decked in scraps of fabric and flesh. There is a boy watching him from the tree line across the clearing, wispy curls momentarily obscuring his eyes.

Derek returns to his more human guise as easily as breathing and opens his mouth to shout. But the boy simply whistles a jaunty tune, _winks at him_ , and disappears into the white.

Stiles and the children are nowhere in sight, but there is a single set of footprints embedded into the snow. Derek hesitates only for a moment before he follows them home.

At the evening celebration – a feast in Derek’s honor – he catches Stiles’ eyes, glowing a violent gold in the flickering light. He expects fear, perhaps, or at least some sort of wariness. Stiles saw – he _had_ to have seen.

Even Derek trembles at the memory of marrow in his teeth and steam rising from the warm blood soaking his skin, coagulating into a sticky mess. He scrubbed for an hour in the icy river to rid his skin of the sheen.

Instead, Derek watches with mild frustration as a slow grin breaks over Stiles’ lips.  

†

Shortly thereafter, a bird begins to follow Derek wherever he goes.

The creature is relatively small, but by no means easy to miss. Its plumage is a brilliant, purple-red mixed with soft cream, gold, and brown. Derek can tell easily because it is staring directly into his eyes when he wakes the first morning.

Years of training prevent him from shouting in surprise, and the bird remains unperturbed by his frown. It cocks its head, shifting from foot to foot from its place atop his chest.

“Hello.” he rasps.

And the bird begins to sing a peculiar song.

It’s nothing like the usual carrying on that Derek has become accustomed to, but he puts it from his mind. Stranger things have happened than birds taking a liking to him, and there’s no harm in allowing the nestling its fun. He has his duties.

But the bird doesn’t go away.

In fact, it makes a point of alighting on his shoulder at every opportunity, singing the _same tune_ over and over. At first Derek finds it a pleasant change of pace as birds tend to find him intimidating; even the little dove he’d nursed in his youth had maintained its space. But soon he realizes that the bird is becoming increasingly irritated.

It looks at him meaningfully between increasingly angry renditions of that tune, nipping at his ears as if to say _what are these large ears for if not to comprehend what I am telling you, you stupid biped?_

Derek has not felt quite so self-conscious in a great many years as he does with aching earlobes, shrinking under the attentions of the members of Beacon Court.

Has he done something to _offend_ the bird? Has he perhaps disturbed its nest?

It offers him no answers, simply flaps about, eying him with varying levels of annoyance. Derek is nearly ready to grasp the thing from the air when John, the Arbiter of the Court’s Lower Council clasps his shoulder.

“I know that tune.” He smiles. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

And something in the expression renders Derek helpless. There is meaning there, but Derek does not dare ask after it. So the bird sings on, and Derek walks with John a ways.

He has received the finest training to be had. He is a prime warrior of his Clan.

He will not be defeated by a _finch._

†

But of course, the finch is not the strangest thing to happen to Derek. That particular honor goes to the rest of the veritable _horde_ of woodland creatures that begins trailing him day and night. Derek is fairly certain that a good portion of their number should be _hibernating._

Apparently Derek is too interesting for the beasts to fulfill their natural cycles.

A moderately sized bear has taken to curling around him at night to stave off the chill. Yet _more_ birds attempt to wrap him in scarves. A bobcat attempts to feed him mice, and when this fails, a _skunk_ takes to bringing him gifts of fruit.

The finch that _still_ hasn’t left Derek alone watches all of this with an air of smugness Derek had previously thought reserved for his uncle after winning yet another game of wits. The smarmy tittering ends with an abrupt squawk when a small amphibian jostles the bird to snatch an offending mosquito from the air before it has a chance to bite him.

This… is becoming excessive.

†

It comes to a head when Derek decides to bathe after a long training session. He’s soaked through the linen of his shirt, and the sweat cools quickly in the winter air. It’s best to wash off quickly, he knows, so he heads for the river with single-minded determination.

The folk watch him as he goes, torn between the usual hesitant whispers about their stone-faced guardian Knight and the more recent laughter over his unwanted entourage. He has been _scolded_ by several young children for _growling_ at the rabbits that so incessantly groom him when he sits too long in place.

He wonders if the _fish_ will attempt to attend him as well, but pushes the thought angrily from his mind as he strips down and wades into the frigid waters. The burn of it would drive most bathers away to the carefully tended heated springs, but Derek has a significantly higher tolerance for these things and treasures the privacy it offers him.

He spends a long while in the water, diving and splashing like a child as the fancy takes him. There’s no one here to see if he pretends at being a water dragon for a bit. Even if they could, it wouldn’t be much more ridiculous than having a retinue of furry friends.

When he finally prepares to exit the waters, he catches sight of one of his woodland stalkers – a young doe – with _his shirt and breeches_ in her mouth. “Easy, girl,” he coos. “Let’s not be hasty here.”

But it’s too late. His stern face once again spells his own misfortune as the doe bolts into the trees, leaving Derek naked as the day he was born in the middle of the river. “Damn it _all_!” he spits.

And that’s when he hears the laughter. He spins on his heel and catches a glimpse of a nude woman grinning beatifically at his expense before sliding on the slick mud underfoot and crashing back under the surface.

He rights himself with a determined surge upward and a great gasping breath, and the woman is still there when he stops snorting water.

“Are you well?”

“Am I _well_?” he mimics. “I would be better had I not intruded upon a bathing woman!”

“I’m not _bathing_.” Her tone is full of teasing, and Derek resists the urge to wring her neck. It wouldn’t do to assault a nude woman. Even if something about her reminded him of years of childhood torment at the hands of his sisters. “I’m a Nereid.”

Derek stops short. “Don’t you usually _drown_ people?”

“Who, me?” She smiles with a sharp set of teeth, but even as Derek looks on, they dull to a perfect set. “No. Not in a long time. It’s more fun to see what they do while they’re alive. Less of a mess, too.”

She rises slightly, perfectly rounded breasts peeking above the surface and only partially obscured by wild, dampened honey locks. Derek makes a point of maintaining eye contact. After a moment or two, her lips form a slight ‘o’ shape before curling into another broad smile. “You’re looking at my eyes.”

“You have lovely eyes, my lady,” he grunts.

“You’re the second man to tell me that. And you mean it, too.”

Derek fidgets uselessly.

“Fine, fine. My name is Erica.” She waves a hand at him dismissively. “Go, and come visit me again when you’ve got pants on.”

“Of course.” He nods, neglecting to bow lest he catch an eyeful of … well.

She wrinkles her nose cutely as he wades toward the shore. “Have a nice trip back, Ser Derek. Though it’s a shame. You really _do_ have a nice ass.”

“What?!”

By the time he turns around again, the Nereid is gone.

So the great Wolf of the West is left to trudge back to his encampment within the Court bare-assed, with nothing but a host of irritating beasts huddling close by to preserve his modesty. The litany of curses he recites is undeniably impressive.

†

The next strange occurrence, thankfully, has nothing to do with animals. It still manages to throw Derek completely off-balance. One morning, shortly after waking, he finds a small parcel by his bedroll. It is wrapped in lilac-colored paper and bound in fiber twine with an acorn on top.

Though Derek is somewhat suspicious in the wake of recent events, he is flattered to receive a gift. He would very much like to express his gratitude, but there is no card. He smiles to himself as he carefully undoes the paper and removes a jar roughly the size of his fist. It is unlabeled and bears no decoration. Curious, he lifts the lid and takes in a myriad of scents that do not _seem_ to be harmful.

He tests the pale green substance within and stops. His eyes widen, and he _feels_ the headache coming on. Everything is beginning to make sense. This has all been one great, elaborate prank to humiliate him in the eyes of the Court.

He has been harassed by the single most relentless bird in creation, stalked and hampered by a number of other tireless fauna, and now he has woken up to a gift of _lubricant._

Derek is a _Hale_ , born and bred to be strong, noble, and dauntless. He is not about to be mocked by some childish prankster. With a low and seething growl, he stalks out of his lodgings and into the chill air, the false gift in one clawed hand.

From there, he heads straight for the healer’s lodgings, where Melissa practices her arts. She is a lady of some renown, and Derek has availed himself of her services several times already. Her herbal brews are magnificent for the troubled mind, and her hands and wits are ever steady. Which is likely why she does not balk when Derek barges in without a greeting, interrupting a conversation with John.

She takes one look at him and hurries to his side, resting her palm against the skin of his cheek and forehead the way a mother might. “It doesn’t _feel_ like a fever,” She says. “Are there any other symptoms?”

“ _This_ ,” Derek hisses and holds up the container.

John eyes the pot with surprise as Melissa attempts to take it from him.

“No,” He barks. Melissa takes a step back, startled, and Derek backpedals. “I didn’t mean -- it’s just -- someone’s played a prank on me…”

“A prank?” Melissa frowns. “This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with your new friends, would it?”

“I think so. And now, this… lubricant.” Derek is stubborn, but not too stubborn to admit that he is, in fact, blushing. This is ridiculous. It feels especially so when John bursts into laughter as soon as the words leave him.

“Son,” He huffs, “That’s not lubricant. It’s a balm for muscle pain and headaches. Works well, too.”

Derek wrinkles his nose and opens the container again to check the scents. Given this information, the smells he’s picking up _do_ make sense.

“It works wonders.” The Arbiter grins and rubs at his own shoulder, as if offering his own muscles as proof. “But the ingredients are uncommon around here, so you’ll need to make it last until Stiles goes traveling again.”

Derek stops short, nose still poised over the pleasant-smelling mixture. “What?”

“My son Stiles. He wanders often. Some folks give him trouble for it, but he brings back quite a bit from his travels.”

Melissa smiles. “If there’s anything you can’t find here, Ser Derek, you should ask Stiles. I’m sure he’ll fetch it for you.”

“I --,” Derek hesitates. “Does he perhaps commune with the… er… wildlife often?”

“Oh, no. For that, you ought to speak with Scott.” Melissa says.

“I will. Thank you.”

Derek turns to leave, and misses the wide, laughing grin the two parents share.

“You think he’ll figure it out?”

“If he doesn’t run the problem through first.”

†

Scott is entirely unhelpful. He tries, certainly, but he lacks the cunning nature so common in higher Courts that would make him truly useful in tracking down Derek’s tormentor. He seems resigned, if anything.

“There’s nothing you can tell me? Nothing of use?”

“Sorry, Ser Derek. It’s best to let things like these play out. I’m sure the… uh… perpetrator doesn’t mean any harm.”

The perpetrator _hasn’t_ caused any harm. Just humiliation. It’s not something Derek is accustomed to. “Isn’t there anything you can do about the... ?” He motions vaguely towards the three rabbits and the suspicious-looking buck currently tailing him. The finch on his shoulder has taken a break from its crooning to preen his hair for him.

Scott rests a hand on the buck’s head and speaks to it in low, hushed tones. A few moments later the creature nods, if somewhat reluctantly, and ushers the rabbits off into the thick of the tree line.

Derek is surprised that he feels a bit sorry to see them go. “Thank you,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if they would ever go home.”

“Sure thing.” Scott smiles. “They just wanted to help, you know? I hope it all goes well for you.”

“All of _what_?” Derek sighs. “I feel as if I’ve missed something.”

“Ah, you’ll get it eventually.”

Derek is beginning to dislike surprises. He’s half-tempted to wring the truth out of the dark-haired fae, but he’s too kind and cheerful. Derek isn’t a monster. Not really.

So for now, he’s forced to give up.

The finch stops its song, but does not leave him.

Privately, he is glad to see the flash of red now and then at the corner of his eye.

 

†

 

Derek wakes up a few days later to the sweet scent of fruit teasing his senses. He opens his eyes slowly and turns his head to find a brightly-colored length of silk bundled up where the parcel had been not long before.

His first instinct is to frown, wondering what kind of new mockery awaits him, but… it smells so _good._ He pushes himself up, leaning out of his nest -- not nearly as warm without a bear snoring around him -- and reaching for the cloth. The texture is _sumptuous,_ and the colors are equally vibrant red, gold, and blue. He indulges the urge to run his fingers over the fabric for a few moments before drawing it closer and revealing the contents.

He doesn’t recognize the fruit inside, but the smell is sweet and tempting. There are two varieties, and he is torn between them. He bites his lip. It isn’t that Derek doesn’t _like_ sweets, he just never had occasion to enjoy them properly. Sugary treats seemed _childish_ to a boy determined to grow into a proud warrior.

Well, no one’s around to watch him now.

He reaches out to touch the bundled fruits, running the pads of his fingers first over the wrinkled, reddish brown ones and then the smooth purple green of the others. He closes his eyes and picks at random, placing the fruit directly on his tongue.

It’s soft and chewy, with an incredibly rich taste like the sweets children of the Higher Courts would smuggle from the kitchens of human palaces. It dissolves in the wet warmth of his mouth like fine sugar, nearly overwhelming in its intensity. He doesn’t think he can eat another just yet. He eyes the remaining fruit curiously, but the remnants of the first linger, sticking to his teeth.

He doesn’t mind it at all.

With a soft sigh, he rises from his bed and dresses, lazy with the taste of sweetness lingering in his mouth. He feeds the finch a small piece of the wrinkled fruit and washes his hands and face. By the time he makes it outside, a crowd has gathered. Stiles is in the center, shouting over the others and trying to remove himself. For a moment, Derek thinks he must have played some new prank that went sideways.

But then Stiles catches sight of him, eyes wide and suddenly hopeful. “Ser Derek!” He calls. The assembled crowd finally parts and he makes his way to the Knight. “I need your help.”

Derek’s spine stiffens and his jaw shuts tight, awaiting orders. “What troubles you?”

“I haven’t seen Isaac today. It’s… today is important. We were meant to meet and talk, but he’s nowhere _I_ can find him.” Stiles’ tone is bitter, as if this is a personal failing.

“I haven’t met an Isaac,” Derek starts, and Stiles cuts him off abruptly.

“Neither has anyone _else_. He’s not particularly inclined to interact with the Court. Just me. But he’s _real._ ”

“I never claimed otherwise.” Derek glances back at the others and sees a few have the decency to look shame-faced. They must have been insisting that Stiles was telling tales before Derek emerged from his lodgings. The thought frustrates him.

Some of the tension seems to leave Stiles’ shoulders. “You’ve seen him. He’s _helped_ you -- that day at the goblin camp, the winds were on our side.”

“The goblin camp…” Derek thinks for a moment, then comes to a realization. “The boy that disappeared?”

Stiles nods. “That was Isaac.”

“And you say he’s lost.”

“Not lost. In order to be lost, you have to want to be _found._ Isaac… doesn’t.”

“Yet you want me to find him?”

“It’s important.” Stiles insists. “He _can’t_ be alone today, all right?”

“Why?”

“It’s not my place to tell you.”

Derek sighs, a low growl of frustration reverberating at the edges. “And yet…”

Stiles’ smile is slight and apologetic as he hands over a worn scarf. “Find Isaac, and I will find you.”

Derek doesn’t know what possesses him to make such haste, but he departs immediately, shaking his head. He wanders past Boyd’s overgrown temple, past Erica’s watery nest, and delves deeper into the forest than he ever has before. He wanders for what seems like hours before he comes to the lake.

“You’re Derek.” The boy’s stare is cool and distant, as if Derek is some unfortunate ripple marring the placid water. He is perched atop a large rock, partially smoothed by the elements.

Derek comes to the base of his perch, but waits before climbing up. “You’re Isaac.”

“Stiles sent you.”

“He did.”

“I didn’t want to be found.”

“He mentioned that, yes.”

“You’re still here.” Isaac grumbles, but moves over to allow Derek space to sit. The Knight complies, and they both look out over the lake.

After a few moments of observation, Derek glances at the pale boy beside him. “He insisted that you shouldn’t be alone today. _Insisted._ ”

Isaac’s lips stretch into the vague impression of a smile. “He’s never left me alone. Not once. Not since the night I died.”

Derek’s shoulders tense. He’s dealt with lingering spirits before, and it’s rarely ended well for him. Isaac doesn’t _seem_ like a vengeful entity, but he could be completely wrong. Cruelty is not always so easy to see.

“I’m a winter spirit,” Isaac drawls, “Not a ghoul. I was human once, but that’s where the similarities end.”

“I’m not familiar with the lore.”

“You have to freeze to death. That’s...what happens. Be without sin, and freeze to death.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Does it surprise you?” Isaac sneers. “I was _pathetic._ I thought my father would be the one to do it. He beat me some nights ‘til I couldn’t see for the swelling, and couldn’t walk for the bruises. But one night I ran into the woods. I ran _here,_ right onto the frozen lake. I fell in.”

His stare is cold and fixed on the still water, his nails digging sharply into his thighs. Where the blue-tinted tips of his fingers settle, a hoarfrost forms and spreads. Derek hisses when it touches his exposed flesh, but does not move away.

“And then I dragged myself out. For the first time in my life, I wanted to _survive,_ and _damn_ my father. _Damn_ the world, and the consequences.I _dragged myself out,_ but then I couldn’t move. It was too _cold_ , and too dark, and the wind was too loud. I made it that far,” Isaac points across the lake to the exposed roots of an old tree. “And no farther.”

Derek wants to say something, but he has no idea what he _could_ say. The lingering sweetness between his teeth is the only hint of warmth against the dull, cold pit in his stomach. He leans a shoulder against Isaac’s and bites through the chill.

“I wanted to go home,” Isaac whispers. “And that’s when Stiles appeared.”

“Stiles?”

Isaac seems to come back into himself, his shoulders sinking and his smile gaining a sad sincerity. “He held me while I died. It was too late, but I was so, so _warm_.”

“How did he find you?”

“The same way he finds anyone.” Isaac frowns. “It’s what he _does_.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’ll see. You’re special, after all.” The smirk on his face makes Derek want to peel it off and smack him with it, but Isaac vaults from the rock surface to hover just over the lake. “Thank you, Ser Derek! It looks like you’re not as bad as I thought.”

“I’m not bad at _all!_ ” Derek growls. “Why must everyone be so damnably _cryptic?_ ”

But Isaac is already gone.

†

With his steps crackling in the snow, Derek is soon painfully aware that he has managed to become horrendously loston his errand. He’s certain that he’s passed the exact same tree at _least_ three times, and the thought of his navigational skills failing him so completely is beyond irritating.

He spent ages in the forests and fields with his pack before he came of age, shifting between four legs and two, honing his senses and basking in the euphoria of _home_ and _hunt, chase_ and _hide_. He isn’t afraid _now_. He is, arguably, one of the more dangerous beasts in this forest, but the quiet and isolation remind him of the fear he felt as a child.

Separation from the pack was like losing a limb, like having the beating heart mysteriously vanish from your chest. The urge to howl rumbled in the vacuum of his belly, and he mourned for the summer afternoons spent sunning himself in a pile of fur and family.

He gives in slowly to the urge thrumming in his veins, feels the pressure of the change well up in his spine seconds before it all comes to a halt.

“ _There_ you are,” Stiles says, a wide smile on his lips. “I’ll lead you back.”

 _Liar,_ Derek frowns. The last time Stiles led him anywhere, it was with a set of footprints in the snow. Now Derek _aches_ for companionship, to beg the clumsy faerie not to leave him alone. It’s unsettling. He stares down at the marks in the snow.

“You’re worried I’ll leave you all by your lonesome?”

Derek’s eyebrows arch high, but he says nothing.

“I could never leave a lady in distress.”

His eyebrows swing low just as abruptly.

“I joke, I joke!” Stiles laughs. “Well?” He offers an arm to hold onto, but Derek rolls his eyes.

They fall into step easily, walking side by side through the snow.

“It’s not a feeling I enjoy. Being lost.”

“It’s not a feeling _anyone_ enjoys.”

Derek shakes his head, “I’m a _wolf_. Wolves are never lost.”

“Because of that fantastic nose of yours?”

Derek nods. “Scent is vital to us. To me. I remember, when I was younger, I remember the flowers in the summer fields by our den. The heavy scent, the purple haze clouding the sky...being _surrounded_ by it like a fog. I remember the _dirt_ on my skin, the iron sting when I first cut my knee. The way Laura laughed, and my mother bathed the wound. _All_ of it. There’s never _nothing_.”

“A purple haze…” Stiles mumbles. He reaches out briefly to rest a hand on Derek’s arm where Isaac’s frost singed the skin. “I understand.”

Derek believes him. He doesn’t know why, but it makes his footsteps feel lighter in the heavy snow.

 


	2. A Most Timely Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is overdue. 
> 
> It's actually been finished for a while, I've just been arguing with myself over the bonus part. That's going to come later, once I have the energy and inclination to add it.

Derek wakes the next morning to the sound of commotion outside, mercifully farther removed than just outside his tent, but still notable. The sounds do not necessarily suggest conflict so much as curiosity, but the finch perched high in its makeshift nest is chirping nervously and shifting from foot to foot.

“You want me to go out there, I suppose?” Derek asks.

The finch makes a harsh churring noise, and he rises obediently. He’s grown far too attached to the irritable ball of feathers, but it’s nice not to be so alone. The bird waits until he’s pulled on his shirt to flutter over and sink its small toes into the fabric at his shoulder.

It pays no mind to his sour look, just rumples its feathers up and makes a contented noise, as if to insist that all is well, and he can now proceed to doing its bidding. Who is he to say no to that?

The crowd gathered further into the encampment mutters wonderingly at the development at its center. Apparently, someone has managed to lead away a human boy, or so Derek assumes.

“Look at his warm skin!” One woman exclaims.

“And his eyes, what pretty eyes.” Another adds.

“Can he run very fast?”

“Will you keep him very long?”

“ _Where_ will you keep him?”

Derek feels sick at that, and even more so when he sees that it’s Jackson who’s preening over the captured boy, who shivers at the attention. He seems confused, which is no surprise. Faerie thralls rarely do understand what’s going on, and this boy is certainly not the first to wake in strange surroundings, poked and prodded by long, slender fingers.

“I...who…” The dark-skinned boy looks at Jackson and bites his lip, work-roughened hands gripping at his thin shirt nervously. He’s cold, and Jackson has done nothing to help him. His eyes sweep the crowd for some helpful face as Jackson answers.

“I’ll keep him as a pet, for now. Isn’t that the way it’s done?”

“Not if you want to keep those pretty blue eyes in your skull.”

The crowd goes silent, tension rising as Stiles pushes his way through the onlookers to stand opposite Jackson, chin set stubborn and visibly angry.

Derek didn’t think Stiles could _be_ angry.

“What _now_ , Stiles? Angry someone else is having a little fun?”

“You can’t keep that child, Jackson.”

“Why not? I called it, and it came. Didn’t you?” Jackson turns to look at the boy, who looks panicked at the attention.

“I don’t _know_ ,” He says. “But I want to go home. Can I go home?” The boy looks at Stiles hopefully, and the faerie draws in a deep breath as if to keep calm.

He squares his shoulders and says, very calmly. “That is not an _it_ , Jackson. That’s a young boy, and you’re _not keeping him._ ”

“What are you going to do, take him from me?” He reaches out to pull the boy closer, but the air beside him is empty.

“I already have done,” Stiles answers, resting a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, and the child shifts closer to press against Stiles’ side.

“I’m cold.” He says.

“That’s all right. It won’t last long, and then you’ll be back where you came from.”

Jackson snarls, and Isaac appears at his shoulder, sliding chill fingers down his spine. He jolts at the sudden sensation before bolting for the safety of his own lodgings. The others gape at the strange spirit, and Isaac shrugs. “Doesn’t feel so good, being cold.”

The human child looks from Isaac to Stiles, and seems to understand something. “You’re the Foxglove Prince.” He smiles a little, heartened, and Stiles grins back.

“Sometimes, Danny boy. All the same, we ought to get you home.” His eyes glow even in the bright of day as he holds his palm out expectantly.

“How’d you know my name?”

“I know plenty of things, but mostly the things that are lost. You _are_ lost, aren’t you?”

Danny takes Stiles’ hand, and they disappear in a flurry of confusion and a whisper of thought.

Derek begins to understand.

†

After that, Stiles disappears for a while.

No one can tell Derek precisely where he went, though there’s really not much new there. Jackson seems offended that Derek has the gall to ask him, and Scott seems earnestly surprised. Melissa and John are equally unhelpful, but they seem pleased by his curiosity.

The Midwinter festivities are approaching, and Derek expected the energetic fae to be helping out with the decorations, or at least making a nuisance of himself with celebrations drawing near. Instead, the Court seems almost quiet.

He is not disappointed. Just unused to the absence, that’s all.

That’s all.

†

The night before the Midwinter bonfire, Derek dreams he’s lying in the fields of his childhood, surrounded by the sounds of laughter and running. The sun is warm and his siblings are chasing each other through the brush.

He rolls to his feet to join the game, his chest rumbling with a playful growl. He feels light and free, faster than he’d ever been as a child. His limbs are longer, better for grabbing and his weight better for dragging unsuspecting brothers and sisters to the ground.

Even with his advantage, Laura is quick to tackle him, rolling him in the dirt and laughing as he refuses to let her back on her feet. Soon, the others join them. Cora, Eamon, Owen, and Nessa are tangled with them as if they were all born conjoined.

There will be no pulling them apart.

The sun is warm on their full bellies and grinning faces, and Laura ruffles his hair as she says, “Stop thinking so hard.”

The smell of flowers is thick all about them, concentrated and sweet.

He wakes up to a familiar purple haze and finds his tent has been filled with violets.

This...explains quite a bit.

†

The bonfire is bright and cheering, even to Derek’s brooding demeanor. He watches the flames flicker and basks in the warmth, quietly surveying the shadows play throughout the clearing. The dark spaces where the fire does not touch are occupied largely by trysting couples, giggling and stifling their moans.

He can’t fault them. It has been a long, cold winter and the festival is as good a cause as any to celebrate. He watches the revelers closer to the fire, sharing food and drink, laughing and dancing to the lively music. A few of them sing along with varying levels of success.

Derek himself is hesitant to join them, and none of the daring youths who’ve shot glances his way have gathered the courage to ask him for a dance.

But then, of course, there’s Stiles. The boy sits beside him with a sigh, all folding limbs and odd grace as he leans back on his arms and lolls his head against his shoulder, watching Derek with a miffed expression. The Knight resists the urge to smile at his irritation.

“I’ve been trying to court you,” Stiles grumbles. “But you’ve made it difficult.”

“You’ve been getting better at it.”

“Wait, you—you _knew_?”

“I’m not _completely_ clueless.”

“Only mostly.”

“To be fair, some of your hints were _ridiculously_ irritating. They didn’t come off as romantic at all.”

Stiles winces.

“But even those proved a comfort over time.” This time, Derek allows himself a small smile, reaching up to touch the finch on his shoulder. The little bird should be asleep by now, but it’s made a valiant attempt to keep him company tonight. It nuzzles his finger, nipping slightly at the pad, and begins to sing its song again. “Does it mean something, that song?”

Stiles bites his lip. “My mother used to sing it to me.”

“Something important to you.”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.”

The boy looks away, but fails to hide his obvious blush even in the dim firelight. Derek can hear his heart racing, and it calls to him.

“I’ve something for you, as well.”

“We needn’t resort to violence, Ser Derek.”

Derek shakes his head, laughing softly as he pulls out the crown of violets he’s carefully woven from the boy’s last thoughtful gift.

Stiles catches sight of the purple at the edge of his vision and turns back with a start. “Derek…” He whispers.

Derek offers it to him with no offered explanation, just holds it out in his hands, waiting for him to take it.

“Wh-what am I supposed to do with that?!”

“Wear it, ideally.”

“Derek…you don’t know what that means.”

“It’s a gesture, just like all of yours.”

“Those were moderate gestures. _Baby steps. **Courtship**_ **.** ”

“Have I not been well-courted?”

“Not from what the others were saying. You had Scott ask the animals to _stop._ Went raging to my father about—about _lubricant._ I think that means I’ve erred a pretty significant amount of the time.”

“But never without thought or reason.”

“You’re _proposing marriage,_ Derek. You can’t just do that without—”

“Thinking? I’ve thought about it. I swear to you, I’ve thought about it. No one but you makes me smile the way I have, laugh the way I have. No one but you has made me feel so damnably _irritated_ , and I don’t want it to end. I would like to learn you. I would like to find you back.”

Stiles’ face is nearly outshining the fire, now, and he presses cool fingers to the skin to alleviate the heat. “Ugh!”

“You’re unhappy.” Derek frowns, the crown drooping in his fingers.

“You took me seriously. _No one_ takes me seriously.”

“Then I will be the first.” Derek’s voice rumbles between them, soft and calm as always. The other revelers are pretending not to eavesdrop, but they have very obviously become the center of attention. By now, the music has softened and the drunken singing has stopped.  

“Oh,” Stiles says. He reaches out to touch the crown with trembling fingers, touch skimming along the vivid blossoms to brush against Derek’s hand. The Knight lifts the crown and places it gently atop his head.

“Accept it,” Derek whispers against his lips.

“How can I refuse?”

The clearing erupts with raucous cheering as Derek takes his mouth for the first time. He doesn’t even mind having to shut up.

†

Of all the things Stiles expected of the Midwinter festival and his frustrated confession, it was not being pulled back to Derek’s tent with near enough force to pull his arm from the socket. He can’t bring himself to mind, too focused on the warm tangle of their fingers and the dark looks Derek sends him over his shoulder.

“Come on,” He urges, and Stiles stumbles after. It’s not quite a chase, but Stiles still feels as if he’s won when the entry of the tent shuts behind them and the purple finch flutters off to its impromptu nest.

Derek is on him immediately, just slightly taller and broader and enveloping him completely in his grasp. His hands are large against Stiles’ hips, as is his thigh between Stiles’ legs. His lips are soft and insistent and Stiles never wants to stop kissing them. Of course Derek has other plans.

His stubble rasps against the chilled flesh of the Stiles’ throat, and he growls when Stiles flinches back.

“It’s just—it’s new. I…”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

Derek kisses him again, lightly, before feathering kisses across his cheek and down his throat. He bites against the line of his collarbone, and Stiles presses his hips into the firm grip. “I want to be kind to you.”

“Is this not something you’re accustomed to?” Stiles’ voice breaks on the latter part of the sentence, a broad palm sweeping into his britches to palm his cock.

“I can learn.” Rough hands make quick work of his shirt, complex though it may be, and Stiles groans at the touch of teeth on his nipple.

“You’re a bastard.”

“But I’m yours, and you’re mine.” Derek grins around a mouthful of flesh, teeth sharpening enough to prick but do no real harm and Stiles shivers in his grasp. “I’ve caught you now. You can’t take it back.”

“Who said I wanted to take it back? I just want to touch you, and be touched.” He reaches out to strip Derek’s shirt as well, kissing the tanned skin of his shoulder before nuzzling at it. “ _Gods_ do I want to be touched.”

“I think I can manage that.”

He can hardly believe it. This is _his_. Starting tonight, this is _his_ , and he can look all he wants without shame. He pulls away to hold Derek’s face in his palms and hold his gaze intently. “Are you happy?”

“I am.” Derek says, and takes Stiles’ hands in his own, guiding them to his belt. “We will be.”

Stiles fiddles with his pants for a moment or two before Derek laughs and knocks him onto the bedroll, finishing the job himself before crawling over him. The grin on his face would be terrifying if it didn’t happen to turn Stiles on so much.

“Oh, send for help.” He mumbles against the other man’s mouth. “The wolf is going to eat me. Whatever shall I do?”

“Scream,” Derek answers, and Stiles would retort, he really would…but he’s too busy doing exactly as Derek says when he takes Stiles’ dick in his mouth. He doesn’t even know when his _pants_ came off.

He’s never been _touched_ by a pair of foreign hands, let alone had another person put their lips around him. He whimpers at the sight of Derek settled between his legs, one hand gripping at his thigh while the other plays at the rim of his hole. “ _Fuck_ ,” He whines, and Derek hums around him.

The hand at his thigh slides up and over his skin, rubbing encouragingly at his hip and belly as he ruts desperately into Derek’s mouth. Stiles tries to avert his eyes and spots the violet crown lying on the bedding beside him.

The scent of purple blooms, figs, and dates is heavy in the air, and Derek swallows around him, holding him in his throat for a moment before withdrawing and tonguing at the slit. As if the taste is something he wants to savor.

He groans, eyes flickering red when Stiles tangles long fingers in his hair, urging him back down. He locks eyes with the boy whispering soft pleas and encouragements, obeys if only for the sake of his own pleasure.

Stiles feels tears sting at his eyes and shuts them just as abruptly. “Please, Derek. Please.”

His lover obliges, sinking back down on his cock as he digs calloused fingertips into the soft skin of his belly. He presses at Stiles’ lower lip with the two forefingers of his free hand and rumbles appreciatively when the boy sucks at them until he begins to drool around them, working his hips with force to gain more heat, more slick, more pressure.

The fingers press in deeper, gagging him a bit before withdrawing completely. _Oh_ , he wants them back. He wants so many things. He doesn’t _know_ anymore, he just wants Derek, wants to come, wants to feel this way forever. He wants Derek to feel it, too.

And then those spit-slick fingers are teasing at his rim again, edging their way inside and tugging at the edge of his hole. It’s new and strange and it burns, but it also makes him scream. His hips arch, and he spills down his lover’s throat, shaking and crying weakly. Derek swallows it all and rests his head against a sweat-dampened hip.

“Have I been kind?” He rumbles.

And Stiles can’t help but laugh. “Give me a moment or two, and we’ll see if we can’t make use of that dreadful lubricant.”

Derek smiles against his mouth. “I knew it.”

In the dead of winter he is safe, warm, and loved. They will be married in the spring, and he doesn’t at all mind the thought of being a round groom.

†

The illusion of safety is not long lasting.

The final chill of winter brings with it the one and only Smiling Kate, her footsteps tailed by the scent of flowers and ash. Her hair is long and golden, her eyes fever bright, and the dryads hiss and withdraw at her passing. She is angry, and it singes the air.

“Can you tell me,” She asks, with her long nails digging into the arm of a nymph too slow in her escape, “Where can I find a boy called ‘Stiles’? I hear congratulations are in order.”

“Deep in the wood,” The girl answers, “Then deeper still. He comes, and he goes. Beyond that I cannot tell you, but please let me be.”

“Let you be?” Kate grins, the skin of her palm burning hot against the nymph’s soft flesh. The girl screams, and Kate tosses her away with an eerie strength, laughing as she continues on her way. The girl falls upon the roots of a great tree, and she cries, cradling her wounded flesh.

The trees rumble amongst themselves, roots deep in the earth spreading the word.

Deep in the forest, Boyd clenches his fists.

†

Isaac finds the girl weeping by his lake, clutching at her burnt flesh and shaking at the base of his usual perch. He says nothing to her, merely takes her arm in cool fingers and blows across the flesh.

It was Smiling Kate, she tells him. Smiling Kate’s come looking for Stiles.

Isaac grits his teeth and goes to see for himself.

†

Animals withdraw from the riverbed when Kate comes near, and she laughs as they flee her line of sight. Word spreads so quickly with just the smallest bit of force. The first spark in a roaring inferno. She loves it.

She kneels down to inspect her reflection in the water, but finds a different face entirely surrounded by long, golden hair. The teeth are sharper than her own, the eyes fierce and angry. With little warning, the waters churn upward, assaulting her with a stinging spray of tiny daggers.

Her skin _hisses_ at the contact, but she plunges long fingers into the water and draws the river rat out by the hair. “Pretty girl,” She says, “I’ll cut your throat.”

“You could try.” The deep, rumbling voice disrupts her preening, and Kate barely turns her head before a force like a battering ram knocks her clear across the river, landing forcefully among the rocks.

She looks up to find a tall, dark-skinned man leading the serpent into the trees, a cloak of leaves about her shoulders. They look back only once, roots and new sprouts curling at their ankles and beneath their feet.

Kate will burn them all.

†

The cold wind bites at her skin as she continues on, and the fire dancing between her fingers and under her skin is of little help. So much for the last vestiges of winter, she thinks, but then what are all of these new blooms around her that the frost will not touch?

The tree roots and vines twine about her ankles and strip the flesh, tripping her and making her bare her teeth in anger. She has plans for each and every weed in this damnable forest, but she has a certain boy to play with first, and she will not be deterred.

Her skin is red where the sacred waters marred her flesh, but she smiles wide and hums under her breath. She remembers vividly the look of fear and betrayal on Derek’s face the first time she placed the iron chain about his throat.

She’ll see it again soon enough, holding him tight as he watches the death of another flammable plaything. He’s gone and picked a famous little slag this time, and she’s delighted at the boost his death will lend to her own reputation.

He may be descended from the highest reaches of the fae lineage, but she comes from the seat of the gods. A lampad fears nothing of the dark, of the fire, of their own infernal madness. There’s a song in every river that runs red, and she is an accomplished composer.

Faeries have never been a challenge, but they do bleed, bruise, and burn in the loveliest shades.

†

Along the path, the hoarfrost begins to form patterns, pointing her deeper into the wood. How charming, she thinks, to receive an invitation. Perhaps it’s a trap, set up by these sweet-faced sylvan children who shift the earth beneath her feet. Her footsteps do not falter.

A god fears no child’s game.

She finds the boy with his full lips and golden eyes waiting at the edge of an old temple ruin, no doubt a popular playground for his kind. They’ll have a festival built around it, no doubt filled with alcohol and plenty of fumbling in the dark.

He’s no doubt participated, judging by the new swell of his belly.

Kate wants to rip the sprog from his gut and tear it with her teeth, but she takes a deep breath and keeps smiling. All in due time. She can wait until it’s cooked.

Won’t Derek be surprised?

Congratulations, it’s a burnt husk.

“You must be Stiles,” She purrs. “My name is Kate.”

“You would be amazed how little I care.”

“Pretty boy, you are _just_ like your granddam. Good at hide and seek, fucking up, and spreading for someone tall, dark, and socially limited.”

The boy smiles jovially, “I don’t know if I’d call Lord Oberon _limited,_ exactly.”

Kate laughs. She may be tempted to keep the boy as a pet, all bound up in iron and put on display. He’d look good at the end of a leash. Oh, but it’s best to be consistent. There are others like him with sweet faces and pale thighs.

“But I’m afraid it’s never _just_ hide and seek.”

“Oh?”

“I spend most of my time with travelers, lost people and things, children in the woods. I see things and care about things that may or may not always see or care about me. I would hate to sound self-absorbed, but…” He turns his hand palm up, and the air between them shivers. She feels a pull in her lungs and the depths of her gut.

The dark-skinned man leans against the temple door, the river witch pressed against his side. A third, curly-haired boy lands atop the roof and crouches down to get a better look, a cocky smile on his face.

She’s beginning to tire of playing with these children.

“The game is Follow the Leader, and you just lost.”

In the cold air, she can see the breath of another player billow out over her shoulder, but she hasn’t the time to turn before Derek’s wicked claws run clean through her belly and pull _up._

“Coward,” She coughs.

Stiles comes closer, the smile still occupying his face. He reaches out to touch her cheek, and doesn’t flinch when she buries her teeth in his hand. “I didn’t need to learn my place, Katie. I was born knowing where I’m meant to be, where I ought to go, and where to return the lost. That’s you all over, and your next stop is six feet underground.”

With that, he snaps her pretty neck.

Derek frowns. “Oberon isn’t socially limited, but I am?” He asks, trying and failing to wipe off the worst of the blood. It’s black and thick like tar.

Stiles shrugs, “Hush, you have more friends than you think. And I like you this way. I get you all to myself."

Boyd laughs, and Erica looks at him like he’s made of starlight. Isaac rolls his eyes at her new infatuation, but makes no comment.

For now, they’re all right.

†

The wedding is scheduled soon after, seamstresses and would-be matriarchs fussing to accommodate Stiles’ swelling belly. They coo over him as they’ve never done before, and Melissa adjusts the drape of the fabric and swats fussy hands away.

John stays far away, occasionally going to talk with his son’s groom but wanting nothing to do with the army of needle-brandishing women arguing over spider silk and the limpid pools of anyone’s eyes. He still remembers the incessant prick and tug of being fitted for his own wedding garments.

The Lord of the Court introduces them to Lydia, a bansidhe renowned for her flair for design and style, not to mention for terrorizing unsuspecting individuals for doubting her lofty vision. Jackson complains about some inane detail _once_ and never again.

Stiles adores her immediately.

Still, despite her best efforts the event is chaotic in the best possible sense. Everyone gets drunk, and nothing goes quite according to plan.

Derek is nervous, and keeps ripping the spider silk sleeves of his formal robes with prickling claws. His attendants quickly give up on trying to keep him calm and break tradition to call Stiles to deal with his inane worries.

The result is a whole lot of muffled noise from the groom’s dressing room, and a group of very red attendants chattering in the hallway.

The ceremony is a brief respite, and Stiles can’t help but cry a little when Derek stumbles through his vows, flushed and smiling just a little as he nods along. After a bit, he feels insulted, and mutters a few rejoinders.

Melissa shakes her head at them both and delivers the final blessing in their ancient tongue, the words sonorous and binding as they issue from her lips: _The Mother and Father bless this union, that it may last long after the seas run dry and the mountains fall. May you walk ever in step and always with hearts bursting with love. May the years be kind, and if not kind then filled with laughter and strong spirits. Let the world know you and to whom you belong, always._

“That means no take backs.” She grins, “And try not to terrorize the countryside _too_ much, will you?”

By the end, Stiles can’t stop laughing, so Derek lifts him up and spins him, grinning wildly and pulling him down into a filthy kiss to the cheers and shouts of the congregation.

Stiles shouts, “Let’s get drunk!” and the cheering increases in volume.

The bride and groom dance willingly, and for hours on end, although there’s more than few sore toes by the end of the evening.

They receive their gifts and blessings with grace and humility, pleased to be so honored by their peers, and then they cut the cake. Derek feeds Stiles his piece with an irrepressible grin, and Stiles smushes Derek’s piece in his face because he saw humans do it on numerous occasions.

The excuse doesn’t stop Derek from chasing him through a crowd of young children and tackling him to the ground to smear frosting over his hair and cheeks.

This is no love in idleness.

†

Derek’s touch is soft and hesitant as he lays Stiles down in the bower, layers of greenery and flora arching overhead in a heavily perfumed shelter. The lights strung over them cast a medley of colors onto his mate’s pale skin.

“What are you waiting for?” Stiles chuckles. “You’ve already knocked me up.”

Derek snorts, pressing his face into the crook of one smooth shoulder. “Am I not allowed to admire you?”

“Admiration comes later. Tonight we’re meant to fuck like rabbits.”

“We’ve done that already.”

“So what’s to stop us from enjoying it again?” Stiles reaches up to undo the delicate laces of his shirt, shrugging it off and tossing it aside. The tailors would _rage_ if they saw how he mistreated their carefully crafted handiwork.

But as Stiles digs his fingers into the silk of his own shirt, Derek finds himself unable to care. Warm lips brush his own delicately before pulling him into a warm, wet press.

“I love you.” Derek says, running careful fingers over Stiles’ stomach. “We’re going to have a baby.”

“Mmm.” Stiles hums, peppering kisses against his neck and shoulder before shoving him abruptly to reverse their positions. He strips Derek of his shirt and pants before he finishes undressing himself.

And he’s glorious, glowing softly in the flickering light and grinning like he’s _won_. Derek doesn’t intend to fight him for this, just gasps and sighs as Stiles rocks against him, rolling his ass against Derek’s rapidly filling cock.

He leans down to kiss him again, sucking languidly on Derek’s tongue and keening desperately when his husband reaches down to tease his hole with slick fingers.

He works his hips in a frantic rhythm, dragging his dick against Derek’s and bucking back against his fingers, but Derek is an utter bastard and pulls them out each time Stiles tries to bury them deeper.

“ _Fuck_ , Dee. Please?” Stiles pants against his shoulder, leaning his weight down for better balance and keening when the other man complies. He pushes his fingers deeper in quick, punishing jabs across Stiles’ sweet spot before slowing down again, rubbing against the boy’s warm inner walls.

“Is that better?” He teases, and groans at the feeling of blunt teeth digging into his skin.  “You’re so sweet like this, all warm and needy. Already full of whelps but so desperate to be stuffed.”

With his free hand, Derek guides Stiles into another filthy kiss, swallowing the whining moans from his lips before reaching down to palm his stiff dick.

Stiles’ slender hips stutter in their movements, the pressure mounting almost intolerably. He wants more, wants Derek, wants _everything_ , but Derek is completely in control.

It’s not fair.

He pulls back with a frustrated sigh, spit spilling over Derek’s lips and chin. He laps at it as he fucks into his husband’s fist with a feverish intent. “’s not the same. Not enough.”

“Oh, I think it is.” Those thick fingers scissor and twist inside him, grinding down on the gland that never fails to make him see stars. He doesn’t let up until Stiles grinds down against him, screaming and shaking his head rapidly.

“No no no _please_.”

“No?” Derek releases his dick and slows the push of his fingers. “You don’t want it?”

“I’m so fucking empty.” Stiles sobs, “Just want to sit on your dick, please? Don’t want to come without you inside. Don’t you wanna feel that? Feel me tighten up around you? I can make it so good. I’ll be so good. _Please_ give it to me.”

“I know you will.” Derek strokes the soft skin of his husband’s thigh and kisses his forehead before helping him into a better position to take his cock. The process is slow, despite Stiles’ attempts to wriggle down onto Derek’s lap.

By the time he’s finally settled, Stiles is a mess, hissing at the stretch even as he starts a punishing pace. Stiles thinks Derek might be concerned if he weren’t so enamoured by the slick heat gripping his cock and the sounds he could pull from Stiles’ lips.

It doesn’t take long at all for Stiles to come apart after that, insides gripping tight at the cock inside him, fluttering just enough to make Derek groan harshly in answer, his hips bucking wildly against the boy, even as he collapses forward and lies limp against Derek’s larger frame.

He presses lazy kisses to warm, tan skin even as he sighs and groans at the continuous pressure rocking inside of him, raking against overstimulated nerves. “Need me to move?”

“No, just…” Derek sighs in frustration, then lifts him gently and changes their position so quickly that Stiles blinks back a wave of dizziness. There’s something oddly pleasing about being manhandled this way, his back pressed tight to Derek’s chest, each of his knees gripped tight and aloft as Derek kneels beneath him, hips pistoning relentlessly into his swollen hole.

He can’t help but squirm and whine as the change in position and redoubled force push the blood back into his spent dick. “You could’ve done this before— _gods._ ”

Sharp teeth prick at the skin over his collarbone, hot breath dampening the flesh, and Stiles bares his throat for his mate to ravage at his leisure.

“That’s it, Dee. Make me yours.” He whispers, and moans at the sensation of wet heat flooding his insides, the same as it had the night Derek fucked their child into him, and so many nights since. Sharp fangs dig into his flesh, drawing blood to the surface, and Stiles doesn’t so much as flinch.

This is the two of them, together, a boy with a wily grin, leaning back into the arms of a sated, rumbling wolf of a man.

Derek wraps himself around him in an impossible tangle of limbs and does not withdraw from him for hours, too busy holding tight and stroking at his full belly.

This will not be their only child.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The next bit is already written, for the most part. 
> 
> All that's left is the epilogue.


End file.
